


The Very Literal Connotations of Falling in Love (or A Demon’s Fears and an Angel’s Patience)

by Veul_McLannon



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (would this be a fic of mine without wings or snakes? no it wouldn’t), First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Snake!Crowley - Freeform, Teen for two swearwords, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-14 11:07:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19272034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Veul_McLannon/pseuds/Veul_McLannon
Summary: Yet another ‘it’s not a sin if it’s love’ fic.In this one, Crowley has spent about four millennia desperately trying not to Tempt Aziraphale by accident because he doesn’t know that Aziraphale actually loves him; Aziraphale /does/ know Crowley loves /him/ but thinks Crowley doesn’t know that /about himself/. Sitcom-worthy misunderstandings ensue.





	The Very Literal Connotations of Falling in Love (or A Demon’s Fears and an Angel’s Patience)

**Author's Note:**

> My first not-established-relationship for this fandom!! Incredible.   
> Please enjoy the sneaky Discworld reference ;) (There’s also a Wodehouse reference, but it’s so sneaky as to be practically non-existent) Footnotes are per section, as I can’t figure out how to hyperlink them, apologies!

Every day was torment.

A thousand tiny pinpricks, the intermittent drip of holy water inches from your face, the soles of your feet crisping and blackening as you walk over hot coals, being forced to watch The Sound of Music, having your eyes surgically removed with a blunt scalpel... any one of these, painful in the extreme, paled in comparison to _this_.

Perhaps he was being a little overdramatic, Crowley conceded, staring unseeingly at his distant ceiling, but wasn’t he _entitled_ to melodrama after six millennia? Six millennia of agonising restraint, six millennia of daily confrontation with temptation incarnate:* the one thing he wanted most in all the world, in the kingdoms above and below, and the very top entry on a fairly short list of things which he could never have.

The angel Aziraphale.

Dare he say it, after all this time, _his_ angel. Certainly the closest thing to ‘his angel’ he was likely to get, given both that he wasn’t exactly in Heaven’s good books, and that he didn’t particularly want another one. One had caused him quite enough heartache.

He sighed heavily and flopped over on his side to blink muzzily at his LED clock, the six black blankets piled atop him barely moving.

12.25am. Not late, by any stretch. But he would much rather be asleep. When he was asleep, he didn’t have to _think_ about it all, didn’t have to _worry_ that his next move would damn the angel to Hell, didn’t have the strain of constantly withholding the instinct to tempt. Not out of malice, or even some kind of misplaced sense that he ought to do his job properly for once, but rather because he was fairly certain that a demon proclaiming to love an angel wouldn’t be positively received by Above. He was under no delusions that the angel might refuse him – and that was the most terrifying thing of all. Once tempted, however inadvertent the tempting, the damage – to their relationship, and to _Aziraphale himself_ – would be irreversible.

And so he had tried to fold his love up into a little ball and cram it away in a dark, unused cabinet in his mind. Unfortunately, like some kind of devious cotton wool, it had seeped through the cracks into the rest of his brain, where he could no more remove all of it than he could dry up the oceans.

He lived, he breathed, he _thought_ love; it was beyond all possibility of a cure. He had discovered the dread illness too late.

He groaned, the noise deadened by well-insulated walls, and flopped over the rest of the way onto his stomach, burying his face in a mound of pillows. Part of him longed to sleep another hundred years away, in the hopes that when he woke all this... _feeling_ would be gone, but he knew from experience that that would not be the case.

All he had done was miss a hundred years of enjoying his angel enjoying humanity – missed the dancing! He smiled into the nearest pillow in spite of himself, imagining not for the first time how delighted Aziraphale must have been, before sighing again. Delighted to have Crowley off his back for a century, most likely.

 _No_ , piped up a tart little voice which bore an uncanny resemblance to the being in question, _You know that’s not true_.

And it wasn’t, of course. His thoughts just got away from him sometimes. More often than he wanted, these days.

He wriggled around onto his back again, trying to get comfortable. Too cold, as usual. What he wouldn’t give for some decent body heat- but that was never, could never be on the cards.

At around 1.40am he willed himself into oblivion.

 

*And it stung even more because _he_ was supposed to be temptation incarnate, blast it, he was the _Serpent of Eden_ for crying out loud.

***

The next day, Aziraphale called him, to ‘test’ a rare bottle of wine he’d picked up at a car boot sale. Crowley had never really had much control when it came to refusing the angel; it took enough to refuse himself on a daily basis.

And so it came to be that Crowley was languishing upon Aziraphale’s hideous tartan sofa, talking some kind of errant nonsense and thinking about how wonderful a world it would be where he could lean across those scant feet (or was it miles?) separating them, take the angel’s soft, warm face in his hands and-

But he never could.

He knocked back the remainder of his glass, refilled it with a thought, and reminded himself that this was enough. That it was a gift which he did not deserve, and that he should treasure it as such without wanting more.

But it was a hard ask when the angel was staring at him as though he was the only being in the world. That is, staring _through_ him, of course, because of the alcohol. It was funny how Aziraphale couldn’t manage drink quite as well as the demon, but it had always prompted an excess of silent gazing on the angel’s part.

And though Crowley knew he ought not, he couldn’t help pretending, just sometimes, that the looks really were for him.

Crowley restrained his fifth sigh of the hour, and settled for gazing mournfully into the ruby-red depths of his glass. He had already gone well past drunk, and was now resting solidly in the realm of the maudlin.

This was torture. Hell in its best moments could never have come up with something so good. Well, bad. Well, excruciating, at any rate.

But he could never go without it, nonetheless.

***

It had been centuries, Aziraphale thought as he gazed, sotted and besotted in equal measures, at the demon currently lounging across the sofa in the back room of his bookshop, gesticulating wildly with both hands and miraculously not spilling a drop of wine in the process. Centuries of drinking together, centuries of babbling together, centuries of loving together, and centuries of remaining quite comprehensively mum about the whole thing.

For he knew that Crowley loved; he, Aziraphale, was an angel after all, and only the wilfully oblivious would be unable to perceive the depths of his feelings. And furthermore, and more importantly, he knew that Crowley loved _him_ , which might seem to resolve the issue favourably for all parties; but the crux of the matter was that he wasn’t sure that _Crowley knew this._ Certainly the Serpent had never given any indication of it. His behaviour had been unchanged for practically all of their 6000-year acquaintance.*

Aziraphale sometimes wondered how the demon hadn’t crumbled from the weight of carrying so much love within him, for so long, and so blindly. He could hardly say the same of himself, being a creature _of_ love, but in his darker moments he thought sometimes that God had been right**: possessing knowledge was by far a greater burden than ignorance.

He tuned back in a little to the world around him, regarded the occult being as through a haze of gold, lighter at the edges and deepening to a burnished copper as it converged on the demon at its centre. Even the books ranged on the walls behind him paled into insignificance, bland and colourless in the presence of such radiant light.

Everything about Crowley was gold; as much as he claimed a penchant for silver. Aziraphale’s wine-soaked mind began waxing lyrical on the warm, comforting nature of gold in comparison to its cold, moonlike sibling; on its many uses and qualities, on its deceptive solidity in spite of the many faces it wore. He looked into Crowley’s glimmering eyes (the habitual glasses long-since discarded), and found that he couldn’t tear himself away.

And had he been less drunk, he might not have done what he did next. Had he been less tired, he might not have even contemplated it. Had he been less content, less sated in the demon’s company, he might have been able to rationalise himself away from the urge.

But he was none of these things, at half past eleven on a Friday night, and so-

He kissed him.

And the whole world froze in place around them.

And Go- _mercy_ , but most miraculous of all- _Crowley kissed him back._

For a brief moment everything was daisy-chains and dream-rabbits and crinkling old tomes and _far_ too much wine; it was golden evenings and crisp mornings and warm afternoons at the Ritz; it was blissful, it was exhilarating, it was _Crowley_.

And then-

Everything went wrong.

 

* This is the point at which an audience begins to scream, frustrated, at the idiocy of the scene unfolding before them, and at their own cruel helplessness to intervene. Aziraphale was terribly clever, in the end – but not awfully bright.

**Not, of course, that God wasn’t _always_ right, he hastened to correct this train of thought. Just- specifically, in this instance, he could relate.

***

Crowley jerked away from Aziraphale as though he had been burned.

“Oh Go- fuck, angel, I’m so sorry I- I’m so sorry I didn’t- oh- _fuck-_ ” How could he have been so foolish? Did he black out? Was he momentarily possessed? Was it true that a leopard could never, as the curious old saying went, change his shorts? Was he simply evil through and through?

It appeared so.

Aziraphale was staring at him blankly. Horrified, no doubt, that someone he had _trusted_ (and that was by far the worst thing; he could suffer embarrassment, Lor- Hell knew he suffered enough of it on a daily basis, but _breaching Aziraphale’s trust?_ ) had tried to damn him quite so comprehensively. In his own home, no less. Crowley was in half a mind to flee the scene, so he would not have to suffer the words of puzzled hurt which no doubt would spill from the angel’s soft pink lips.*

The other half of his mind won, however, and he remained rooted in place, gripping the arm of the sofa so violently that he really, by the laws of physics, ought to have torn the fabric. The laws of physics could wait. Crowley awaited the angel’s verdict, thoroughly uncomfortable in the knowledge that he would do anything to once again regain his good graces.

When Aziraphale finally spoke, it was in tones so smooth, so slippery and difficult to grasp, that Crowley had to replay his words several times in his head before he understood.

“It’s quite all right, my dear. I understand perfectly.” The angel’s hands were clasped neatly in his lap; if it had been possible for him to become a literal part of the furniture Crowley was sure he would have done so.

“But I- wait, you do?”

“Of course. I could not hold it against you, my dear. We have too much history to let such a thing mar it. I beg that you... will not hold this against me.” For the first time Aziraphale hesitated, his gaze sliding in the direction of the ground.

 _Hold this against him_? He clearly hadn’t given the angel enough credit, Crowley thought incredulously; enough of a bastard to be worth liking? Only just, if he continued acting out the role of the good and selfless being. Hold this against him? He, Crowley, hold Aziraphale’s lack of interest in his _abhorrent_ feelings, his underhand, _traitorous_ behaviour against the angel? The idea was almost laughable.

But only almost, as the demon discovered when a not insignificant part of his psyche piped up sardonically, _Not only is he not interested, idiot, but he really thinks so little of you, knows you so well, that he has to beg you not to be a petty little bitch about it. Pathetic._

The part of Crowley which he usually shoved bodily to the forefront of his thoughts was making wild shushing noises at this sardonic element, which was sipping a martini in the recesses of Crowley’s mind and smirking to itself. Crowley, for his part, vascillated desperately between the two, seeking guidance and receiving nothing.

Aziraphale made a small noise, jolting the demon to consciousness, and the realisation that he hadn’t answered the angel’s question.

Before either part of his mind could process what was happening and tell him in no uncertain terms (and for once unanimously) to stop, his hands had darted forward to clasp Aziraphale’s, drawing the angel’s eyes to his own.

“I could never, angel. Could never hold... hold something like that against you. It was an accident, I would never have- I would rather have a thousand years of... this-” he gestured jerkily with his head in an effort to encompass the room around them, and their life together, “- than one more second of-” he took a shallow breath, exhaled shakily, “- that. I’m so- so sorry.”

What Crowley had almost said, in addition to reassuring the angel that he held no ill will towards him  ( _towards him!_ ), was, “It was an accident (I made a mistake); I would never have tried consciously to damn you so utterly,” but had felt it was rather too on-the-nose and changed tack.

What Aziraphale _heard_ , in addition to absolution for his gross overstep of their boundaries, was, “It was an accident (you made a move, we can brush it under the carpet); I would never have kissed you back if I had been in full control of my faculties.”

What Crowley had meant, in addition to the above, was that he would settle for a thousand years or more of their comfortable companionship, rather than one more second of an activity which would see Aziraphale Fall.

What Aziraphale heard, in addition to the above, was that Crowley found the concept of a romantic entanglement (in spite of his, Crowley’s, own feelings, of which he must still be oblivious) so abhorrent that he could not countenance another second of such an activity. He thought it perhaps a little uncharacteristically cruel of Crowley to say so (especially when the demon was clasping his hands so gently), but then the poor creature had probably just had something of a shock.

It is of such things that excessively-long and overwrought television dramas are born.

 

*And he could finally attest to their softness personally, now- not that he was thinking about Aziraphale’s lips, no. That way madness lay, as the fourteenth century could attest.

***

“You-” Crowley was continuing, oblivious to this sequence of mental events, “You’re too important. I could never risk it, thought I _would_ never risk it, and I- I’m so sorry, angel.”

 _Could never risk it?_ Aziraphale tilted his head a little, suddenly puzzled. _Was Crowley referencing the wrath of Below? Directed at Aziraphale? Surely they would consider it an achievement? Perhaps his demon was still a few glasses short of sober, for he was all but speaking in tongues..._

Aziraphale opened his mouth to say just this, and ask for a perhaps marginally more sober explanation, when Crowley, with a small _pop_ noise, vanished, to be replaced by a sizable black snake, which somehow contrived to look around furtively before slithering rapidly under the sofa and out the back door.

 _Well_ , thought Aziraphale, still perched on his sofa with his mouth open, _that could have gone better_.

***

The succeeding weeks were a trial. Crowley, never really one for casual affection, had completely withdrawn all forms of touch, and refused point-blank to get more than mildly tipsy around the angel.*

By the two-month mark, Aziraphale had had enough.

“Crowley, I have had enough,” he announced one evening after they had assumed their seats on the sofa.

Crowley’s head snapped round so fast it was a wonder he didn’t get whiplash. Perhaps he did, and miracled it away. “Ngk?” he said eloquently, eyes going perceptibly wide behind his glasses.

“What is this behaviour? I won’t have it, you know; I realise I overstepped the mark but I would _hope_ we are both _mature_ enough to be able to _carry on_ in spite of it. Are you afraid of me now, is that what this is?” There was silence. The books themselves held their breath. “Speak, serpent, and cease your strange machinations.”

Said serpent was now thoroughly and comprehensively confused. So faced with either responding to a direct request or wallowing in his confusion, he chose the former.

“When I-” He turned scarlet in an instant, averted his eyes, “When I kissed you-”

Aziraphale held up a hand, brow furrowed. “Ah. When _I_ kissed _you,_ I think, dear. I believe the pronouns are important.”

“Well, when I tempted _you_ into kissing _me_ , then, let’s not mince words, I-”

The angel interrupted again, a little exasperated. “You did nothing of the kind, Crowley; you haven’t tempted me in over five thousand years – and anyway,” he huffed, “I should think I, an angel, ought to know when I am being tempted and when I am acting of my own free will.”

“Ywhat?” Crowley’s jaw had dropped. He was certain his brain had followed it across the floor and on out the open door.

“Free will, my dear? The whole eating of the apple business? An occurrence with which we are somewhat intimately acquainted?”

A noise was emanating from somewhere in the room, a whistling sort of noise, like someone was letting the air out of a balloon very, very slowly. Crowley shut his mouth.

“Are you going to speak, Crowley, or are we communicating in hisses now?”

“Angel.” Crowley’s eyes were wide behind his glasses.

“Yes, that’s me; I think that’s fairly well-established by now.”

“ _You_ kissed _me_?” Crowley sounded distinctly as though he had just been smacked in the face with a half-set blancmange.

“ _Yes_ , I should have thought that abundantly clear, due to the fact that _I moved first_ – something for which I have _already_ apologised, I might add - and moreover that _you haven’t tempted me in five thousand years-_ ” he muttered something unintelligible about other forms of temptation, but Crowley was too distracted to pay heed.

A small Hell was breaking loose in the bookshop, quite literally. The glasses on the table shattered and promptly reformed. A book fell halfway off its shelf - before thinking better of such rebellion and reinserting itself, cowed, into its allotted space. Silence fell, and stretched, and stretched a little more, until-

“ _I thought I was tempting you!_ ” the demon howled. A car alarm went off outside in solidarity. “All this time I’ve been trying to stop myself from tempting you, to stop you from Falling, and then you go and- of all the _stupid, idiotic things-_ angel, this really takes the biscuit! Have you _no_ sense at all?”

It was Aziraphale’s turn to sit in stunned silence, mind fixated on one word. “Why...” he began slowly, as one might when speaking to an easily-spooked horse (and he could attest that they had nothing on Crowley in a mood) “Why would I Fall, Crowley, for love?”

“ _Because I’m a demon, you feathered dimwit_!” Crowley’s voice had reached an impressive pitch and volume; next door’s dog began howling mournfully and Dame Kiri Te Kanawa awoke halfway across the world with a strange sensation of failure creeping down her spine.

There was a beat of silence (save for the car alarm and the dog and Crowley’s own galloping heartbeat) before the demon said, in a very small voice, “...For love?”

Aziraphale sighed and restrained himself from rolling his eyes only through valiant application of will. It was a near thing. “Almost unbelievably, given your communication abilities, yes, dear. Now, I don’t know about you, but personally I think that we have some _considerable_ catching u-mmf!”

He was cut off, in terribly clichéd fashion, by liberal application of demonic lips to his own. He wasn’t overly bothered about the cliché, however, and was rather more concerned with wrapping every inch of himself around every inch of Crowley he could reach. There was a muted rustle and a pair of very large white wings filled the back room to make good on this attempt, followed soon after by a second pair, only a little smaller.

He gasped into the demon’s mouth as their wings inevitably brushed; Crowley groaned and redoubled his attempts to systematically plaster himself to the angel, hands tangled in his hair and clinging as though he were drowning.

The clock ticked away quietly on the far wall, delicately averting its face from the scene before it. Some things one ought not to bear witness to. It was, however, powerless to ignore the soft whispers from the direction of the sofa:

“I love you.”

And presently:

“I know, my love.”

 

*Aziraphale knew that this behaviour was only occurring around him, as he had seen the demon draped across a bar in a select establishment up the road, perhaps five, maybe six sheets to the wind, and proceeding to add a seventh to his repertoire.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I love to hear from people if you enjoyed it :)


End file.
